


Persuasion

by tabacoychanel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Mutual Pining, Reunions, and they were exes, arya stark vs westerosi gender roles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabacoychanel/pseuds/tabacoychanel
Summary: Five years after Jon and Arya's bitterly broken engagement, Jon returns as a dashing sea captain, the biggest catch on the marriage mart. Can they recover what they have lost?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

> “There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”   
>  —Jane Austen, _Persuasion_

On the night Ned finally came home, he had been gone from Winterfell above a month and there had been no word for all that time. No letter, no hastily scrawled lines entrusted to a footman who might have been slow to post them—nothing. Catelyn’s nails were bitten down to the quick.

Ned had left on horseback but returned driving a coach. This in itself was unusual; Catelyn suspected her husband had been born on four hooves and only walked on two feet with great reluctance. In the torchlight and upheaval of his arrival she saw that the carriage had a roof, which was the most that could be said for it. The pair of horses that drew it were not well matched. Catelyn wondered where Ned had got the other horse, and if he meant to keep it. She had plenty of time for wondering while she waited for him in her dressing-room.

Her _first_ instinct had been to run down to the yard and fly into his arms and beat her fists against his chest until he explained his absence to her satisfaction, but she was Hoster Tully’s daughter and there were some things you did not say in front of servants. Cat had let her household believe that the young Earl of Winterfell had departed in haste to perform a secret errand to which _she_ , the countess, was privy but not at liberty to discuss, and belowstairs there was lively speculation on the nature of his errand, and who had commissioned it (the Prince Regent of Dragonstone? the king himself?). Catelyn was worn thin by the grueling ordeal of hiding her anxiety from the servants.

She decided that waiting for Ned to come to _her_ was good. It allowed her a moment to collect herself.

When the maid came to tend to the fire Catelyn could not stop the question crawling out of her throat, dry with anticipation, “Is Lord Eddard quite finished in the stables?” He would want to rub the horses down himself. He always did, and after a long journey he was doubly solicitous of the creatures.

“Why, his lordship’s in the nursery, m’lady.”

“The nursery,” said Catelyn.

Of course. Robb must be twice as big as he was when Ned last saw him.

Yet the more Catelyn thought about it, the less likely it struck her that Ned Stark, doting father that he was, would prioritize a sleeping babe over allaying the fears of an agitated wife. Ned had his faults, but thoughtless cruelty was not among them. Catelyn’s mind returned to the coach Ned had driven home in, and what it signified.

She heard him rap smartly on the door—she knew his knock as she knew his tread—and then he was before her, apologizing for not changing out of his traveling attire.

“Never mind that,” she whispered into his neck. Every particle of dust that he shed was proof of his impatience to see her.

“Cat, there are things we must discuss.”

“In a moment. Promise me this—promise you won’t do it again. Whatever called you away this time, I know nothing but great exigency could have prompted you to act as you did. I know you for a man of honor, Ned. But if you repeat this performance I fear my nerves will give out. You’ll have to put me in the madhouse and find yourself a new wife.”

Ned smiled at that, but a shadow lurked in his eyes. “Be easy, my love. The circumstances are not like to repeat. I promise never to keep you in the dark again.”

It was then that Catelyn’s heart resumed its regular rhythm after a monthlong hiatus. She had expected it to be harder to extract such a promise, but Ned had given it with all the good will in the world. Which was confirmation, if she had needed it, that Ned was one man in a thousand and she had been right to choose him. Here was the truth that Catelyn had learned early and often, and which Lysa, with her head in the clouds, never had: Men would disappoint you, as sure as water flowed downstream. You had no control over it; they went out and did whatever they pleased while women were confined to the domestic sphere. You could not prevent the disappointment, but you could regulate your own response to it.

Catelyn took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about the babe.”

“How—“ Ned started, alarm turning at once to ire. “ _Who_ has been telling you about the babe?”

“Nobody,” she replied with perfect truth. “You didn’t marry me because I’m dull of wit. It’s Brandon’s, isn’t it?”

She had been counting back the months since Brandon was lost at sea. It fit with what she knew of Brandon’s character—she had been engaged to him, once—and it fit with what she knew of Ned’s. Only, why all the secrecy? Why leave Catelyn without a word of reassurance, why leave her in suspense for _weeks_? Why was Ned so reluctant to speak of it even now, when she had guessed the worst? Every word that passed his lips was like passing kidney stones. He said stiffly, “You have a right to know that I have undertaken to raise the boy as my ward.”

The blow was not the news so much as the manner in which he delivered it: _You have a right to know_ , but no right to partake of the decision. Catelyn was not to be consulted. Catelyn’s wishes did not enter into it at all. She had not failed to notice, either, that Ned did not comment on whether the child was Brandon’s or not. “You know what they will say, Ned. They’ll say it’s yours.”

“That is a risk I must take.”

“ _You_ must take! I daresay you also undertake to raise him without my assistance? Right here under my own roof? If you are holding back out of consideration for _my_ feelings, pray recall that I knew exactly who Brandon was when I accepted his suit. All I am asking is that you tell me if this child whom you propose to rear alongside ours is your brother’s by-blow. That you do not wish folk to think ill of Brandon is commendable, but if _anyone_ has a right to know, surely it is the person most nearly concerned. I am not only your wife but the woman he jilted. Please, Ned, give me the truth.”

He stopped stroking her hair long enough to utter a strangled, “I can’t. I wish I could.”

“Just tell me it’s not yours,” she implored him. “Tell me you did not father that child who lies in the nursery beside Robb. Whatever you say now will not leave this room, I swear it.”

“I made a promise,” was all that Ned would say, and why did he have to look so pitiful as he said it that her heart went out to him. “I can’t. Some promises supersede all others.”

“You made a promise to _whom_? Brandon is _dead_ these fourteen months. Did you know about this babe before he—no, of course you didn’t. You’re a terrible liar.” No-one could have been more shocked than Ned when the courier had arrived with the letter: He had hardly cracked open the seal before he had called for his horse to be saddled. He must have known the letter-writer’s hand very well indeed. Catelyn said slowly, “You had no doubt whatsoever as to the authenticity of the contents, did you? And you refused to take a groom, or your valet, or anyone at all.” Secrecy had been utmost in Ned’s mind even then.

“I took Howland.”

“Where is Howland now?”

“Left him at Greywater Watch on the way back.”

_On the way back from the South_ , he meant, but Catelyn had already deduced as much. If Brandon Stark was sowing wild oats in the North they would have heard of it before now.

“Cat,” said Ned, wearier than she had ever seen him, “I will never lie to you.”

“I had no notion you were required to,” she returned acidly.

“Honor requires my silence on this matter,” he said, “but I mislike it. Truly I am loath to keep anything from you but a promise is a promise. The child is of my blood—one look could tell you as much. There are things I cannot speak of, and I have no right—I don’t expect you to forgive my abominable behavior—but on account of the love you bear me, I beg you to let it go. Press as hard as you like, it will do no good; it will only hurt me. I beg you will accept the only truth I can freely offer you: I have loved none but you.”

Damn him. Damn him for being the most decent of man, and damn him for loving her so well. She took his rough hand between her small dainty ones and said, “He has the Stark look, does this babe? Well, the next one of ours will have it too.”

“That is a promise, Lady Stark?” asked Ned, eyes sparking.

“A promise I am confident I can keep.” After all, Brandon and Ned and Benjen all had it, grey eyes and long face and dark hair. Even Lyanna, whom Catelyn knew only by reputation—a scandalous reputation; it was said that Lyanna had fled an engagement which was distasteful to her—Lyanna had had the Stark look too. _A regular herd of centaurs, these Starks_ , thought Catelyn with fond irritation. She had given her husband an heir but it would be sweet, would it not, to give him a child who bore the unmistakable stamp of Starkness. Mayhap the next child would even be as horse-mad as its father.

Jon Snow grew up wanting for nothing except a name.

In the North “Snow” was a surname as common as “Smith,” and with as little cachet. It might mean he was the son of a chandler; it might mean he was a royal bastard. He didn’t, in fact, entertain dreams of a secret royal parentage, as he knew many boys in his position did: Other boys lived in orphanages, or were fostered to households that treated them like the hired help. Jon Snow had a family, and he wouldn’t exchange it for any other. Yes, Lady Catelyn was cold. But Arya’s warmth made up for it.

Eddard Stark was a man whom Jon both loved and respected—he did not think he would ever meet a better one—and Robb was the best brother a boy could ask for. The only difference was Robb called him _Papa_ and Jon called him _my lord_. While Jon had never troubled himself about where his next meal was to come from, or if he would have clothes to wear or a place to sleep (he had read his share of novels about orphans), what preyed on him was his place in the world. Namely, that he didn’t have one. Lord Eddard had ensured he received the same education as Robb, but what he was going to _do_ with a headful of poetry and geography was another matter—if he went into trade, for example, it would be scant help. Robb had privately expressed the wish to buy Jon a commission in the Prince of Dragonstone’s newly formed Navy “as soon as we are both of age,” and that was the thread on which Jon had pinned all his hopes. It was not a boon he felt he could ask of Lord Eddard, to whom he already owed more than he could ever repay, but Robb was different. A gift from Robb was a thing he might someday, conceivably, reciprocate.

Robb and Jon were enduring their third lecture of the week on the declension of Old Valyrian nouns when Turnip the scullery maid popped into the schoolroom to bob a curtsey and say, “Begging your pardon for the interruption, Mr. Luwin, but it’s Lady Arya. She’s gone and barricaded herself in the library again.”

“When did this happen?” demanded Jon at the same time as Robb said, “Does my mother know?”

“The countess is overseeing the work on the topiary hedge.” Jon let out a relieved breath, and Turnip continued, “It happened just now—Old Nan sent me straightaway.”

Robb and Jon had both scraped back their chairs, but Mr. Luwin said, “I do not see that this crisis requires _both_ of you boys to resolve. We have lessons to finish,” looking pointedly at Robb, the heir. Also the one whose declensions and conjugations required attention.

Robb sat down with a thump. “Don’t let her get inside the china cabinet this time!” he hollered after Jon.

Jon took the stairs two at a time. He found Old Nan pacing back and forth before the library doors. “I almost mistook you for a dragon,” he teased, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“A dragon that’s lost half its hoard, belike! Oh, the countess was right—the girls are old enough for a governess. I can’t manage them on my own, what with the baby to look after too.”

“Why don’t you go and help Sansa with her sewing, Nan? You did right to send for me.”

“I couldn’t stop her. You know how she is—quicker than a snake.”

If Arya was a snake, Jon was confident in his ability to charm her out of a tree or a scrape or whatever pile of trouble she’d landed herself in. In his twelve years there were few enough personal triumphs that Jon could with justice lay claim to, but there had never been any doubt in his mind that he was Arya’s favorite person. “You may as well go,” he told Old Nan. “I have this well in hand.”

Nan fled for the nursery, and Jon rapped on the heavy oak door. “It’s me.”

“Go ‘way,” came the muffled response.

“Are you crying, little one?”

“No.” That was Arya’s first and favorite word: _No_. It preceded both _Mama_ and _Jon_.

“I’ll wait out here then. Will you keep me waiting all day?”

A series of sniffles. “Don’t you have lessons?”

“Robb has lessons—Old Valyrian lessons. Dull as dust. I’d much rather go riding with you.”

A note of wistfulness crept into Arya’s voice. “Mama said I’m not to go near the stables till I finish my copybook. Why can’t I study Old Valyrian with you and Robb?”

“You must master your letters before you start on the dead languages,” smiled Jon.

“I _hate_ making letters! Mine look like chicken poop, and Old Nan’s always saying Sansa how learned _her_ letters when she was six, and I’m _seven_ now!”

Jon silently clucked his disapproval of Old Nan, who should know better than to make unfavorable comparisons to Sansa.

Arya was not done airing her grievances. “I want Papa to teach me my letters. He _promised_ , and then he went away to the as—assi—“

“Assizes,” Jon finished for her. Lord Eddard had been called to King’s Landing for the opening of Parliament. The session would last for some weeks yet. “Listen. How would you like it if _I_ taught you your letters?”

If Arya was a horse her ears would have pricked forward. Jon could tell, even from the far side of a closed door. She said hopefully, “And then you’ll teach me Old Valyrian?”

“We’ll study my books together.”

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and hinges creaking open. Arya gazed up at him, cry-red eyes rimmed in tears shed and unshed. He knelt down to gather her into a hug. “I’m in so much trouble,” she mumbled into his chest. “When Mama finds out…”

“She shan’t,” said Jon, firmly. “And by the time she does, we’ll have you writing a fairer hand than any maester of the Citadel. She will have nothing to chastise you for.”

The problem, as it often was with Arya, was lack of proper motivation. She could not see the point of taking such pains to form her letters when the reward for doing so was so murky and uncertain.

“Think of it!” said Jon encouragingly. “You could write _letters_.”

“To who?” wondered Arya.

“Well, wouldn’t you like to write to me?”

“I see you every day.”

“Yes, but what about when I leave for school?”

“School,” said Arya, rolling the world around like the pit of a fruit she had swallowed whole. She was sitting down at her little writing desk, elbows akimbo. Her legs did not quite reach the floor and she kicked one back and forth.

Jon pushed the inkwell towards her. “When Robb goes, I go too. If you don’t write me at least once a week I don’t know how I shall bear it.”

“Once a _day_ ,” pouted Arya.

He glanced meaningfully at the quill.

With great reluctance she picked it up, and Jon frowned. “Why are you holding it in that hand?”

“It’s the hand you write with,” said Arya, and she didn’t add _stupid_ aloud but he could hear it just the same.

“It’s the hand _I_ write with. Your left hand is your dominant one.”

“Domi—huh?”

“It’s the one you hold your fork with.”

“But everyone holds their pen in this hand! Whenever Old Nan or Mama catch me they make me switch hands.”

Jon was beginning to get an inkling why Arya’s lessons were each and every one an ordeal. “If you were on your pony and you needed to keep one hand free, which hand would you hold the reins in?”

“The right.”

“Because your left is the one you _do_ things with. You keep your right hand on the reins because it’s automatic—you have a good enough seat you could probably ride blindfolded, bareback and reinless, I warrant.”

She beamed at the compliment. “Do you think so?” Then a cloud passed over her bright upturned face. “Mama will never agree to it. I heard her telling Old Nan to keep an eye on me. Don’t want the new governess to see me holding the quill in my left hand like a bar _barian_.”

Something turned over in Jon’s chest. “You’re left-handed, Arya. There’s no changing that. I’ll speak to the countess about it.”

“That will only make it worse! Mama always takes a pet against _your_ ideas. It shan’t work, and she’ll give you a set-down while she’s at it. She’ll tell you it isn’t your _place_ to interfere in my education. I don’t like it when my Mama hurts you, Jon.”

His heart seemed to expand to twice its usual size. “I know,” he said, and reached over to muss her hair. “The suggestion cannot come from me. But what if it came from Robb? What if Robb…noticed your difficulties, and consulted Mr. Luwin, who produced a long list of prominent left-handed luminaries stretching back to the Andals and the First Men, and perhaps a new ink blotter to help you avoid smudging the parchment? How do you think your mother would take that?”

“Yes, that would work! That’s brilliant.” But she was chewing her lip again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Robb would not have noticed. Not on his own. Oh, I might have gone to him and he’d not have rested until he’d set matters to rights. But he wouldn’t have _noticed_ , the way you noticed. I wish Mama did not dislike you. I wish you were my brother for true.”

It was the most unaffected yet profound thing that anyone had ever said to him. Jon was perennially wary of usurping Robb’s fraternal prerogatives; he did not wish to give Lady Catelyn any more ballast than she already had. But this was Arya: Her first word may have been _No_ but her second one was _Jon_.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said, making his voice low and conspirational. He checked to ensure he had re-bolted the door against interruptions. “We’ll _make_ it real. From now on I’ll call you ‘little sister’ —when we’re alone, at any rate. How would you like that?”

Arya’s eyes were shining like stars. “Really? You would?” She clapped her hands together, delighted. “That’s the best idea ever! And it doesn’t just have to be when we’re alone. Robb never calls me that—I know he’d be a sport about it.”

Jon considered. “What does he call you?”

“‘Little demon,’” she admitted with a duck of her chin. “And Sansa calls me a nuisance.”

Sansa would. “It’s settled then. Let’s finish your copybook before we lose the light. I want to go riding with my little sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank-you to mysticalmuddle, the world’s best beta and an even better friend, who is the reason this story exists. This is not even halfway done (I have four chapters written and the rest vaguely outlined) and it's the longest thing I’ve ever written. I hope you all will be patient with me because 1) I write slow and 2) it's heavy on the angst--they'll get a happy ending but first we have to board the train to Pain City.


	2. Chapter 2

> Dear Jon,
> 
> Sansa has obliged me to accompany her to make formal calls on all the tenants. She had a list, and from time to time she would take it out of her reticule and consult it. Without it I do not believe she could have told you a quarter of the tenants’ names—to say nothing of their wives or offspring or livestock. She had drawn up a detailed house-by-house itinerary for us to follow, which was rather spoilt when we came to the footbridge over the stream and found it missing several beams. It’s been in need of repairs for a fortnight. Sansa said “Whyever didn’t you say anything” and I said “Whyever didn’t you ask” and she hardly said five words to me after that. She didn’t consult me, Jon. You know she never does. She just imperiously orders me to follow her lead, and learn to do things the proper way, and Mama looks on with approval. Sansa cannot conceive that there is any knowledge under heaven that I possess and she does not, for if it was worth knowing would she not know it already by dint of possessing all the virtues of a lady? Betimes I too begin to doubt the existence of other virtues.
> 
> I reckon it would have gone quicker if we’d gone on horseback, but Sansa would not hear of it: “Think of the picture we would present; think of the state of our frocks!” It does not strike me that one collects appreciably less dust from walking down a country lane than riding down the same lane, but I know the reason Sansa refuses to ride and I did not press the point. She has not climbed on a horse since Lady’s accident.
> 
> The other horses go on well. Between me exercising them every day and the stableboys sneaking them extra treats, Grey Wind and Ghost are certainly _not_ feeling neglected! The very idea … As if any horse in Papa’s stables would ever suffer the least iota of neglect. Grey Wind does not even wait for me to open the stall to begin nosing for his apple, a habit for which I hold Robb entirely responsible. Tell him to stop pouting about not receiving his own letters, by the bye. Tell him it’s his fault he’s such a poor correspondent—I’ve had two letters from him in two years. Tell him I love him and tell him his horse is as big a coxcomb as he is.
> 
> _DO NOT_ permit him to read the remainder of this letter.
> 
> I am quite in earnest.
> 
> You ought to know that the stables are bleeding money. They always were—a coach-and-four is after all the price of being a gentleman—but the difference is, the rest of the estate was not so encumbered as it is at present. I have reviewed the account books once with Mr. Cassel, and once on my own. There is no mistake. We shall be obliged to sell the horses within the year. That, or allow Winterfell to be let and remove ourselves to—where, exactly? And where would we stable the horses in the unhappy event? Papa will not thank me for being so blunt—he means to spare us, I think, but we are not children and he has not the power to protect us from ruin. For that is what we face: utter ruin. The blame cannot be laid at Papa’s door—it lies with Grandpapa, or Uncle Brandon if it lies with anyone—and yet it is we who shall bear the consequences. I am not _sorry_ that I have Nymeria; it is however inarguable that the estate is much encumbered on account of ~~five~~ four horses who bring in no income and whose upkeep is considerable. I have spoken on it to Papa. I have spoke and spoke. He does not hear me. He has an avulsion to such “unpleasantness." It may be that catastrophe is inevitable but I wish Papa would _talk_ about it. We are on the verge of losing everything, and I desperately need someone in this family to have a sensible discussion about it. Mother is many things but she is not someone who would take our loss of status tamely. I wish above all that you were here, Jon. I wish we could talk it over and you’d call me “little sister” again, and tell me everything is going to be all right.
> 
> There is also the expense of Sansa’s debut to consider. Mama will want to bring her out in King’s Landing, naturally. I foresee two possibilities: Uncle Edmure will supply the funds, or Sansa will not have a debut. I pray, for her sake, that Uncle Edmure comes through. Sansa would be be an ornament to any gentleman’s household. ~~She has not even a horse to say a tearful farewell to~~. I am being uncharitable. She cried herself to sleep for a month after she lost Lady; what is more, she must marry well or forfeit the station in life to which she has been accustomed. You and I, by contrast, have never had any consequence and shall not regret the lack of it. But I shall regret Nymeria’s absence every day of my life. I cannot imagine a worse calamity. Is that selfish of me? Surely the family’s fortunes ought to weigh more, in the balance, than the fate of one girl’s horse. Not to you—I know I have always come before the rest with _you_. But I am unforgivably selfish, am I not, for repining upon a dumb beast when so much hangs in the balance?
> 
> I have a thousand things to tell you and hardly any parchment left. Mr Luwin japes that my letters could well fell a forest. Mr Luwin has not let on to Mama that I repurpose the parchment from Bran’s lessons for writing to you, and for that he has my gratitude. The day is not far off when Bran must be sent away to school, and where we will find the funds for _that_ I’m sure I don’t know. The expense of Rickon’s education concerns me considerably less, as I fully expect him to savage the first person who attempts to confine him within the four walls of a schoolroom, flee into the forest riding bareback upon Shaggydog, and promptly found a colony of beast-men.
> 
> Your Arya

In Winterfell on the harvest moon it was traditional to hold a public assembly. From as far away as Barrowtown and the Last Hearth they came to enjoy the Earl’s hospitality, to mingle and gossip and scrutinize the cut of each other’s garments. In the North this was what passed for a social season. It was also, unofficially, to be a send-off for the present Earl’s daughter, who was to be presented at court—a singular honor accorded to few Northern maidens. Lord Eddard’s eldest daughter was said to be a singularly captivating girl.

Since Lord Edward had assumed the Earl’s title, he had decreed there was to be no subscription taken up for the assembly—that the Starks would, in effect, throw a ball at their own expense every year. Some saw this as unforgivably high-handed, taking _noblesse oblige_ a bridge too far. Others saw it as encouraging the riffraff to mix with their betters; what was to prevent the sons and daughters of upjumped merchants from attending? Privately Ned thought that if a guest was not deterred by the expense of a good tailor, they would be unlikely to balk at the modest sum of a subscription. Ned took no joy from restricting his company to what Catelyn called “persons of quality.”

It was an old argument between them. Catelyn insisted she bore the lower orders no ill will—provided they knew their place. Ned insisted that Winterfell _was_ their place, and every blacksmith and bricklayer was welcome. Catelyn would lose patience, accuse him of playing the innocent; of willful ignorance to the workings of the world. There _was_ a world beyond the gates of Winterfell, and in that world birth and rank and breeding were paramount. Ned did not dispute this. But the Starks had held Winterfell for a thousand years, and there was very little left for Ned to prove. The Earls of Riverrun, by contrast, dated the creation of that title only three generations back.

There were no marquesses north of the Neck, and no other earls. This left Ned the highest ranking member of any given gathering, and it fell to Catelyn to open every ball and lead the procession into every dining-room. She was spectacular at it. She was born to be a hostess. Ned could only regret there was so little scope for her abilities in the North.

At present Ned’s own much more limited abilities were sore beset by Sir Jon Umber, an affable enough man whose greatest fault was his imperviousness to subtlety. “You’ll be accompanying the lass to court, then?” he was inquiring of Ned.

Ned gave a curt shake of his head. “The countess will go with her. She’ll know what to do much better than I would. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, you know.”

“Right you are, your oldest boy is away,” said Sir Jon, stroking his beard. “Jon, is it? Ah, no, forgive me—that’s the t’other, the ward. Your son’s shadow. Both of them packed off to the Oldtown to have their skulls stuffed with Old Valyrian, that will be why I havenae seen them.”

“You are thinking of Robb,” said Ned, carefully.

“So I was! Robb. Of course. A good, stout name. As is Jon.” Here Sir Jon gave a hearty laugh and slapped his own vast paunch for emphasis. “Never set much store by that southron brand of education, myself. Kept both my boys at home, hired tutors for ‘em. It was good enough for you and me, eh Ned?”

“Times are changing, and a southron education opens certain doors,” said Ned, straining to inject a note of finality into the subject.

But Sir Jon was far from finished expounding on the subject of boys’ education, and Ned was only rescued from a discourse on the paltriness of the Citadel’s curriculum by the intercession of the Baronness of Barrowtown, who had her own agenda.

“I hear felicitations are in order,” said the baroness once she had peeled him away from Sir Jon. She snaked her arm through Ned’s, and with the quirk of an eyebrow beckoned a serving man with a tray towards them. “Champagne, Ned?”

He said stiffly, “There is no occasion to felicitate me or mine, Lady Dustin.”

“No, but there soon will be.” She threw him a knowing smirk. “Once your daughter has secured the brilliant match you are sending her to court for, you’ll be saved, won’t you? This drafty old castle, and all the lands that go with it. You’ll finally be in a position to dig yourself out of the hole poor Brandon left you in.”

“My daughter,” said Ned, “is not a _heifer_. And you will oblige me, Lady Dustin, by not presuming upon whatever intimacy you shared with my late brother to pry into affairs which do not concern you.”

Rather than affronted the baroness appeared merely pensive. She tapped one long, elegant finger against her champagne flute and said, “They call her the Rose of Winterfell, you know.”

Ned’s right hand curled into a fist. “Beg pardon?”

“Your daughter Sansa. Her reputation precedes her.”

“You are mistaken. She has no reputation; she isn’t even out of the schoolroom.”

“So was Lyanna,” Lady Dustin pointed out. “Recollect what they called _her_.”

 _The Rose of Winterfell_. And if they thought Lyanna a delicate flower—if they thought her like Sansa—they had never known her at all. Ned’s patience was fast wearing thin. “Kindly come to the point. What is it you seek of me? It is not within my power to raise the dead.”

Lady Dustin laughed then, and it was not a pretty laugh. “That would be the last thing I desired of you. I want to watch, Ned. That’s all. I just want to watch.”

“Then I wish you joy of the spectacle,” said Ned, walking away.

He could not, of course, retreat to the card-room to stew on Barbrey Dustin’s words, because Catelyn would never forgive him for sitting out a single dance when there were rafts of ladies wanting for partners. He was the host. He had a responsibility. But Ned was not made for this, this endless hubbub and high spirits. He had not quite mastered the pattern of the newfangled southron dances, and could scarcely afford to pay any mind to conversational patter, his mind being fixed on the goal of not treading on toes. He was fortunate at this time to be partnered with Lady Mormont, for Maege had the gift of putting everyone at ease: Whatever one said in Maege’s presence always seemed like the most natural thing to say.

She said approvingly, “You’ve outdone yourself. There must be twice as many people in this hall as last year.”

“The credit is Catelyn’s,” he demurred.

“Nonsense. The planning is Catelyn’s; the heart is yours. Catelyn would not have admitted half these fellows through the tradesmen’s entrance, and here they are filing through the front door. They’re here for you, Ned. The smallfolk and the gentlefolk both, they’re here for you.”

Ned did not think himself such a great draw as all that, but it was difficult to argue with Maege, and over the years he had learnt not to try. He said lightly, “ _You_ at least did not come all the way from Bear Island to take stock of my accumulation of grey hairs. You’ve come on the girls’ account. Tell me, did you bring little Lyanna this time?”

“Not likely,” huffed Maege, “though she caused a frightful scene when we took our leave. Ten is too young to be thrown into the viper pit of the marriage market. Let her grow up straight for a few years more.”

“A fine way to speak of a gathering at my house,” observed Ned.

The look Maege threw him was cutting. “You know quite well no blame attaches to _you_. You must contend with the same forces as I and my girls do. Dacey has not stood up with the same man twice, this evening. I have a premonition that no offers will be forthcoming; none she will seriously entertain, at any rate. If only my brother’s fool son hadn’t gone and lost his head over that tart, there would be no need for—well, that’s neither here nor there. Ned, have you reconsidered my offer to have your younger girl to stay at Bear Island for a season?”

“Do you know,” he mused, “you are the first person tonight to ask after Arya rather than Sansa.”

“Sansa,” Maege said bluntly, “will make somebody a splendid wife. Arya is a different kettle of fish.”

Ned’s gaze flickered briefly to where Sansa was exchanging bows with Cley Cerwyn. She was radiant. Catelyn had approved a string of fresh pearls for her to wear, and she wore them like a duchess. Arya had never in her life looked as assured as that. He sighed, “Even if I send Arya to you it won’t do any good. Soon or late she must needs marry.” It was not that Arya was not lovable; indeed, to know Arya was to love her. But unlike Sansa, Arya had not the trick of making herself _agreeable_ —and lacking it, as a woman, she was certain to suffer.

“I do not propose to alter the course of her life,” said Maege, more patiently than was her wont. “Merely to prove to her that she is not alone. That womanhood is not wholly encompassed by the models of her mother and sister. That there are other ways to _be_. Will you at least think on it, Ned?”

“I—“ _will speak to Catelyn_ , he almost said. But that was cowardly. They both knew what Catelyn would say. “—am afraid I have mislaid Arya. I have not seen her these two hours past.” He had not spared a thought for her; there was too much else to occupy him. Ned reproached himself for this lapse.

“She’s cornered one of the musicians and is interrogating him on the workmanship of his instrument. Jorelle saw them in the billiards room,” Maege offered.

“In the bill—“ Ned bit back a curse. Where was that useless chaperone he had engaged for her? “ _Thank_ you, Maege. For everything. If you will excuse me.” His bow was perfunctory, hers faintly amused.

Arya was not in the billiards room. She was not in the supper room, or even the musicians’ gallery. Ned was desperate enough to sweep the kitchens and the stables, both of which were high on Arya’s list of usual haunts, but Nymeria was alone in her stall and Cook reported no sightings. Struck by a thought, he climbed up to the nursery, but Arya was not there coaxing Rickon to sleep with wildly inappropriate (for a five-year-old) bedtime tales. With mounting dread Ned realized that he might have to enlist Catelyn, but this was a final resort. Of late, Catelyn and Arya were a combustible combination.

When he passed the door to the crypts and saw it was slightly ajar, he knew instantly where Arya had gone.

She must have taken a candle down with her—one could not navigate the stairs blind—but presumably it had guttered out.

“Arya,” he called out, when he got to the bottom. “Arya, are you down here?”

“Here, Papa.”

He held his candle high and felt his way along the frescoes toward her voice. Other houses had portrait galleries; the Starks had frescoes because House Stark significantly predated the invention of oil-on-canvas. And, too, stone was permanent. Everything here was stone--the walls, the statues, even the lantern sconces. Arya was huddled beneath Lyanna’s statue, as he knew she would be. Reflexively he checked her clothing over for rips and stains, but nothing was amiss save the gloves crumpled in her left hand and the twin tracks of tears on her cheeks.

“Oh, poppet. How long have you been down here in the dark?”

She shrugged dispassionately.

“Arya, what on earth has happened?”

“My gloves are ruined,” she said, in the same tone of voice Sansa might have said _My debutante ball has been indefinitely postponed_.

Given that Arya usually paid less mind to what she wore than to what sort of bridle her horse wore, Ned leaned down to get a better look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can see they were well-made.”

“They’re blue. I mean, they used to be blue before Septa Mordane spilled punch on them. She said it’s indecent for ladies to wear colored gloves. She said it’s _not done_ , and I should be ashamed of myself.”

“Arya, I am certain it was not—”

“I wore the gown. I wore the slippers. I let them do my _hair_. I did everything Mama asked of me, _everything_. I hated it but I did it, because Mama said it was important. I swear I am not a trial to you a-purpose, Papa, but _Jon gave me those gloves_.”

“I see,” said Ned. He offered a brief prayer of thanks that he had found Arya before Catelyn had, for she would have handled this outburst quite differently. “I understand now, I think. I miss him too. I miss them both. They’ll be home soon enough, you know.”

“And what will they come home to?” she pressed. “The stables empty, the furniture sold for kindling?”

Ned groaned inwardly. “Let it be, Arya. It’s not your affair.”

“Yes, it’s yours and Mama’s. What does Mama reckon we should sell first, the secretary bookcase or the grandfather clock?”

“ _Arya_.”

“It _is_ my affair, you see, because if we haven’t two coppers to rub together, however will we purchase a Navy commission for Jon?”

That gave Ned some pause. “I didn’t know that’s what Jon wanted to do.”

“ _Somebody_ has to make provision for his future,” she grumbled, and Ned wondered when it had become generally accepted that “somebody” was going to be seventeen-year-old Arya.

“You have the right of it. I’ve been unforgivably lax. I have somewhat of a blind spot when it comes to you children—I think of you as children still, and Winterfell as your home, always. But Arya, have you not given any thought to _your_ future?”

When she looked up at him her eyes were much, much older than her years. She glanced away, toward Lyanna’s statue. “I used to wonder what it would be like if she had lived. If all those stories you told us were true—if she was really a crack shot with a pistol, and never rode sidesaddle, and stole into a gentleman’s club wearing Brandon’s clothes and routed the lot of them at whist.”

Ned felt a familiar pain in his chest. “She would have liked you.”

“She wouldn’t have been _happy_ , though. She would be married to Robert Baratheon and she would be ….less. She wouldn’t be as vital as the Lyanna of your stories. Isn’t that right, Papa?”

Why could children not remain children forever? Why did the world distort them into shapes they were never meant to assume? “Yes,” he admitted. “Right again, poppet. I saw how my father dealt with Lyanna, and I resolved to do better by you. Of course I seem to have succeeded only in making an implacable enemy of your mother, who _will_ have it that I indulge you.”

“And Sansa. Sansa says you play favorites,” Arya reminded him.

“Ah, Sansa. A headache for another day.”

“I didn’t think …. that Sansa ever gave you any trouble. She’s the perfect one, isn’t she?”

Gods be good. Ned set one finger under her small, pointy, stubborn chin. He tilted her face up a fraction. “I beseech you to believe me when I tell you that _you_ are perfect precisely the way you are.” Arya drew a ragged breath, as if the words were alien to her. A sudden thought struck him. “Here, I have something for you.” Digging in his pocket he produced a pair of earbobs that glinted emerald in the light. “These were Lyanna’s.”

She made no move to take them. She looked at the earrings, looked at him, looked at the velvet-lined box they were nestled in. “You were going to present them to Sansa,” she said, accusatory. “You weren’t carrying those around on the off chance you’d stumble on _me_ sulking in the crypts.”

He glanced again at the statue, the features softer than he remembered the living Lyanna’s. “I think she would have wanted you to have them.”

“I don’t—you can’t—it doesn’t _fix_ things,“ she choked out.

“I know that. But I want you to have something pretty of your own. Jon isn’t the only one who thinks you deserve pretty things.”

“My gloves—“ she began.

“I’ll bring them to the laundress myself, and I won’t mention it to your mother.”

“ _Thank_ you, Papa. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Ned suspected her gratitude was more for the commonplace gloves than the priceless earrings, but when she threw her skinny arms around his neck and showered him with kisses, Ned Stark had never been gladder that he had two daughters.


	3. Chapter 3

The library at Winterfell was old, and somberly furnished, and over-crowded. It was by any measure quite a spacious room; but when it was crammed full of the heirs and relations of the late Earl of Winterfell—each and every one attired in a superabundance of black crepe—one could be forgiven for noticing the closeness of the walls. 

“Somebody throw open the blasted window,” suggested the Earl of Riverrun, but no one paid him any mind. Indeed, no one who could fathom the reason for his presence. He was the widowed countess’s brother but she had not sent for him; she had at her side her own son, a man grown, after all.

If Lady Stark had had her way the reading of the will would have included only herself and Robb and the solicitor. Instead they were subjected to this circus. (When the solicitor had stammered out Jon Snow’s name as one of the parties named in the will, the countess’s expression had turned to stone. “Sansa, Arya, out,” she had barked, while both her daughters’ mouths hung open in entreaty. “But Mama, I am an affianced woman! If _Jon_ is staying—“ “Until you are Marchioness of Storm’s End I still outrank you, Sansa. Out, out, OUT. _None_ of you is staying for this.” Robb had to take Sansa by the elbow and escort her into the saloon. Arya went without protest, in the certain knowledge that Jon would fill her in later.)

Jon was wearing Robb’s castoffs, since he had never had occasion to wear mourning and his own wardrobe was inadequate. The waistcoat was too broad in the shoulders, the trousers too short, and when Lady Stark saw him in in them she had given a twist of her mouth before turning away. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He wasn’t wearing mourning on _her_ account, and his days of caring what Lady Stark thought about anything were fast drawing to a close. _I’m here for Arya_ , and the thought was a talisman. 

On any other occasion Jon would have stuck close by Robb, taken his cue from Robb as he had his whole life—but for obvious reasons Robb’s arm was at his mother’s disposal today. Jon hung towards the back. He could still detect in the air the faint trace of the tobacco the earl had favored, and he did not wish anyone to comment on the wetness in his own eyes. 

It was such a senseless tragedy—a vessel caught in a freak storm, all hands lost. People recalled that Eddard Stark’s elder brother, too, had gone down in a storm, and now there were some who said there was a curse on House Stark. They did not say it within the hearing of Captain Benjen Stark, naturally. Captain Stark stood on Lady Stark’s other side, but Jon had never detected any warmth between them, merely cordiality. _Why does it hurt to see them together?_ he wondered, and a small voice answered _because they’re Lord Stark’s family and you are not_. He brushed that thought aside. Jon Snow knew full well who his family was, and it was the girl whom he called “little sister.”

Yesterday he had asked Captain Stark about the odds of an able seaman being advanced to petty officer, and Captain Stark had given him an astute look. “You would not do well among the crew.”

“Sir, you doubt my diligence?” He knew he must prove himself, but to be rejected out of hand without even a hearing…

“No, lad, only your manners. You have the manners of a gentleman.”

“And that’s—a problem?” 

“It is if you’re to be bunking with the men. They’ll wonder why you aren’t in the wardroom with the captain and the lieutenants. But surely you could look to Robb to purchase your commission—the two of you have always been close, haven’t you?”

Jon swallowed. “Like brothers.”

“I know the feeling. I never thought to live in a world that had none of my brothers in it.” Captain Stark looked momentarily distant; then he offered Jon his hand to shake. “Write to me—Robb has my direction—I haven’t a great deal of weight with the Admiralty but what I have I’ll gladly throw behind you. It’s what Ned would have wanted. He spoke most highly of you.”

Jon had stammered his thanks and withdrawn. His stomach was made of lead. He could not accept Captain Stark’s generous offer of patronage, because he had no means of obtaining a Navy commission in the first place. Robb was in no position to grant him anything. From what Arya had showed Jon of the account books, Robb would be fortunate to keep the roof from falling into disrepair. 

That was yesterday, when he and Arya had been the only ones who knew the full extent of the earl’s debts. Today an entire roomful of people were about to discover it. Undoubtedly the revelation would color their opinion of the deceased. They would call Lord Stark improvident, when he had been no such thing. The household at Winterfell would be reduced to a step above penury, and every person who had attended the funeral service would begin to contemplate cutting the connection with the Starks. Jon spared a pang of sympathy for Sansa, whose wedding-clothes waited with her trousseau for her to emerge from mourning. Sansa was to wed the heir to Storm’s End, a match arranged by their fathers and tolerated by their mothers. Lady Cersei thought her son could have set his sights higher and Lady Catelyn thought her daughter too young to know her own mind. 

Jon had been introduced to all or most of those gathered here before, at various assemblies and routs and shooting-parties. None of them offered him more than the barest of nods now. He had not expected them to. He had not expected to figure in Lord Stark’s will at all. He had lived the whole of his life on sufferance, and it would be a blessed relief to enlist in the Navy where he could be judged by what he did and was, rather than what he was not. He fretted about what would become of Arya, of course. He wondered if Rickon would ever acquire a sheen of civilization. He grieved that they would make of Bran a clergyman rather than the soldier he ardently desired to be. He feared he would never see Ghost again, and he feared that Robb would wear himself out in the discharge of real or imagined responsibilities. _None of this is within my purview anymore. Winterfell was never my place._

The solicitor was shuffling papers around. Lady Stark’s brother had grown impatient enough to stalk over to the window and throw it open himself. When at last the solicitor cleared his throat and began, Jon discovered he was holding his breath. He did not belong in this room, and whatever happened, Lady Stark would find a way to pin the blame on him. She always did. 

Eddard Stark, Earl of Winterfell, had been well-liked by his peers and well-loved by his tenants. The bulk of his wealth had been entailed, and would pass with the title to Robb. His last will and testament included personal bequests to a number of long-time retainers, as well as family heirlooms destined for his cousins, Lord Karstark and Lord Flint. For Lady Mormont there was a collection of hunting trophies—furs and antlers and horns and the like.

No objects of real value were disposed of until the solicitor came to the horses. “To my son Robb, the hunter known as Grey Wind. To my daughter Arya, the hunter known as Nymeria. To my son Bran, the hunter known as Summer. To my son Rickon, the hunter known as Shaggydog. To my ward Jon Snow, the hunter known as Ghost and the sum of seven hundred golden dragons.”

 _The sum of …what?_ It was preposterous. _Why should he single me out like this?_ he thought, even as his traitorous heart gave a single thump of vindication.

The library had erupted into murmurs. Lord Stark had not left so much as a halfpenny to anyone else, including his five children. One simply did not go around settling sizable sums on orphans of unknown parentage if one did not wish one’s relations to speculate on the reasons for it. Lord Manderly gave an unimpressed harrumph and said, loud enough to be heard over the clamor, “Always suspected the boy was his by-blow. Well, that’s settled it.” Jon felt five different things at once. 

It was what he had always wanted, wasn’t it? For Lord Stark to acknowledge that Jon meant as much to him as the other children? _But not like this, never like this_. Not at the cost of Robb’s solvency, and not at the cost of Lord Stark’s reputation. He had half a mind to publicly reject the bequest on the spot—but if he made a scene now it would only fan the rumors rather than allay them.

Lord Tully was whispering urgently in his sister’s ear. She was too well-bred to react to the verbal torrent, but Jon could discern the words “I tell you Uncle Brynden wouldn’t have stood for it.”

“A pity Uncle Brynden is not here,” she returned. Perhaps Lady Catelyn had written Brynden Blackfish and got Edmure instead. Jon felt an unexpected pang of empathy. Lady Catelyn was like to be the only person in the room who was as appalled by this turn of events as Jon was. She wasn’t looking at him, but every other pair of eyes now rested on him. 

Far and away the worst was Robb, whose expression held not an ounce of shock or betrayal. He was all warmth; he was _delighted_ on Jon’s behalf. Jon did not deserve it. He had never deserved any of it. If they were going to drag Lord Stark’s name through the mud—the best man Jon had ever known—then Jon wanted no part of it. He could not stand to remain in this room another instant.

“That bad?” said Arya when he strode into the stables and she got a good look at his face. “What did she say this time?”

“It wasn’t her. It was everyone else.”

“How did she take the news that Winterfell is mortgaged from here into the next Age of Heroes?”

“I didn’t stay for that part. Sorry.”

“Jon,” she said, suddenly grave, “tell me what the matter is.”

“Let’s go riding,” he said, because in his experience a good, long gallop with Arya was the cure for all ills.

He had known he would find her here. Arya liked to muck out Nymeria’s stall herself. The stablehands, who went in awe of her, did not mark this as strange. The stables were where she felt most herself. Here her father had put her on her first pony, and here Jon had taught her how to care for her bridle and tack. While Jon and Robb had been in Oldtown she had spent as much time with their horses as her own, with the result that Ghost now seemed to prefer her to Jon. Jon was not in the least bothered—he, too, liked Arya best. 

An hour and a dozen fences later, they stopped to water the horses and he conveyed to her the contents of Lord Stark’s will. “It won’t answer, Arya. To have your father’s character called into question—no legacy is worth that.”

She did not enter into his sentiments on the matter. She had always believed, bless her heart, that Jon deserved to be accepted in the first circles. Of course, she also believed he deserved to sit the Iron Throne and to be Emperor of the Western Sea. “Well _I_ don’t give a straw for whatever aspersions they cast upon Papa’s character. We two know the truth, don’t we?”

“And what is that?”

“That you were his son in everything but name. That he made no difference between you and the rest of us, and he wanted you to be provided for when he was gone.” She made it sound so simple. Everything was simpler when he was with Arya.

“ _You_ may choose not to regard the allegations,” he pointed out gently. “You have that privilege; _you_ are an earl’s daughter. I am a man of unknown family. My reputation is all I have.”

“But that’s infamous! That’s—Papa left that money to _you_! He did not mean to have his legacy adjudicated in the court of public opinion.”

“You are remarkably sanguine for someone whose brother has lately been ensnared in a noose of debt. Tell me, have you no care for Robb, at least? It’s his money that your father settled on me, after all.”

Arya waved a dismissive hand. “Robb’s going to marry an heiress.“

“Be serious, Arya.”

“I am! Her name is Miss Westerling and her grandfather was in _trade_ , can you imagine? Mama is going to have kittens.” She sounded fair to bursting with glee at the prospect.

The name Westerling was not unfamiliar to Jon. While he and Robb attended school in the South there had been many offers of hospitality from the leading families of the Reach and the Westerlands. “Robb didn’t breathe a word of it to _me_ ,” he said, more than a little put out. “How come you to know this?”

“Bran and I pried open Robb’s writing desk while you all were occupied in the library. His penmanship continues to be abominable and his romantical flights are frankly embarrassing. A _secret engagement_ , really! But this Miss Westerling seems a steady sort.”

“You ….read his letters?!”

“No, silly, I read _her_ letters. She doesn’t hunt, which is a pity, but she comes with enough dowry that we could keep a whole string of hunters if we wanted to. Isn’t that right, old boy?” She patted Ghosts’s rump. “So you see, you needn’t worry what will become of Robb, or Winterfell, or me. You can accept Papa’s bequest with a clear conscience.”

“I think I will always worry about you,” he said, very low.

She raised one mud-spattered eyebrow at him. “Well you must know I feel just the same about you. I would have wanted you to take the money even if Robb’s bride didn’t have a groat to her name.”

“Arya,” he sighed. 

“ _Don’t_ tell me to think of Bran and Rickon. Don’t,” she warned him, fierce as anything. She put him in mind of a bear guarding her lone cub. “Bran and Rickon have my mother. So does Robb. So does Sansa. All you’ve got is me, and I know I’m not good for much…”

“What rot,” he said thickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He pressed a quick kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re perfect.”

“Papa said so too. I didn’t believe him either.” She had given a small hiccup at the word _Papa_. “I’m glad I convinced him to leave you enough for an ensign’s commission—at least I was able to do that much.”

Jon drew back, thunderstruck. “You did what?”

“Seven hundred golden dragons is the cost of an ensign’s commission in the Royal Navy. I had Mr Luwin look into it,” she said, with no more fanfare than if she had informed him Cook was preparing roast fowl for supper. 

“Little sister….” Words failed him. That she would make light of her exertions on his behalf; that she would think of his welfare first, last, and always—it was too much. 

She turned her large, liquid eyes on him and her voice took on a note of desperation. “Jon, you must promise not to forget me—”

“ _Forget_ you!” he gasped. 

“—when you’re out there cutting a dashing figure and taking prizes left and right. I’ll be at home, preparing for my career as a spinster. Let’s see how many of the neighbors I can drive away before Mama packs me off to live with Aunt Lysa in the Eyrie. _She’s_ not much use to anyone, either.”

Jon opened his mouth to assure her that no man in possession of his senses could fail to offer for her hand within five minutes of making her acquaintance, but he was silenced by another thought: that he did not wish any man—no matter how deserving—to do so. Because she belonged to Jon, and no one else. The conviction was not a new one, but the force of it in this moment nearly overset him. He gathered his wits enough to ask, “Arya, do you really think that? That you’re useless? I owe all my future prospects to _your_ foresight in urging your father to do this. The idea would not have occurred to him independently.”

“That’s different,” she insisted. “That’s you. Oh, gods, I’m going to miss you so much.”

Growing up as Lord Eddard Stark’s penniless ward, Jon had desired above all an independence, a way to establish himself that did not depend on the goodwill of others. Now it was finally within his reach, he found he was greedy and wanted something else just as much. Arya herself would have called him a nincompoop for suggesting she wasn’t already his, in every way that mattered, but that was half the problem: She had so internalized her own worthlessness at ladylike pursuits that she could not credit anyone’s _preferring_ her in a romantic sense; she thought _little sister_ was all she was good for.

The other half of the problem was Jon did not have the least notion how to go about courting a girl whom he had known since she was in leading-strings, and who moreover was meant to be in strict mourning. 

“Arya had a row with Mother at breakfast and it was beyond anything,” confided Bran with the air of one who had returned from a particularly exciting boxing match. 

“Oh?” said Jon, who had taken his breakfast early and thereby avoided Lady Catelyn. 

“She was wearing earbobs, big green ones, and Mother told her to lay them aside till after the mourning period, and Arya told Mother she would sooner renounce the Old Gods and take up the worship of R’hllor. She doesn’t even _like_ jewels—I’ve not seen her wearing earrings above five times in my life.”

Jon said thoughtfully, “Your papa gave her those.”

“Did he? Well that explains it. I expect Mother is only peeved about Robb’s engagement, and being severe with Arya in lieu of reconciling herself to the match.”

“Reconcile?” scoffed Jon. “I should think your mother would be overjoyed.”

“Her grandfather was a _grocer_. He’s passed on, but Sansa says Miss Westerling’s grandmother, Mrs. Spicer, has a reputation for being an encroaching sort. If she expects to be received in Winterfell she’ll be disappointed on that score. Mother will see that vulgar woman in the seventh hell before she sees her in our drawing-room.”

Jon wondered if the bride-to-be had been consulted; for all he knew she had _leapt_ at the opportunity to rid herself of encroaching relations. When it came to Miss Westerling, Robb was long on panegyrics and short on details. Jon wondered what it was like to fall in love like a thunderclap—for feelings to surface instantaneously rather than lurking unobtrusively like rocks in a riverbed. He was intending to ask Robb about it, but Robb had other matters on his mind.

“What’s a word that rhymes with ‘lips’?” said Robb.

“Are you writing a sonnet to her _lips_?” said Jon. 

“Ought I to write about her ears, d’you think?”

“Certainly not.”

“I’m no great hand at poetry, I know it. I have more feelings in my breast than I have words for.” 

Jon could sympathize. If he loved Arya less, he might have been able to talk about it more.

Robb grew solemn as he added, “Father would have liked her. She has such natural, confiding manners.”

“He would. I regret I’ll not be here to make Miss Westerling’s acquaintance.”

“As do I. You’ve been my right hand all these years, and it’s selfish of me to wish to keep you any longer from pursuing your own ends. I’m glad for you, Jon. Truly I am. And it’s time I did something for you in turn.”

“There’s no need—“ he began hastily.

“It’s about Arya.”

“…What about her?”

Robb was all earnestness as he said, “All of Winterfell knows she has been your especial charge since we were small. You may rest easy in the knowledge that I will see her well looked-after in your absence.” 

“In my absence,” said Jon, a bit testily.

“I promise to see her settled with a man who is worthy of her. It won’t be easy, but Arya was never easy, was she? Mayhap it will go easier once Sansa’s safely ensconced in Storm’s End.” He gave a helpless half-shrug, inviting Jon to shrug with him at the folly of sisters. 

Jon was going to be ill. The worst of it was that Robb meant it kindly. He meant it as a gift—as if Jon could go an hour without thinking of Arya merely because they were separated by a thousand leagues. 

He said everything he ought to Robb, thanked him, clapped him on the shoulder, and left him there composing yet another ode to Miss Westerling’s infinite virtues. Then he went in search of a way to woo a woman who already loved him. 

“Did you pick these pears for me? But we ought to have gone together! We could have had twice as many pears.”

“We’d have had half as many, and we’d have worn the other half on our clothes,” countered Jon.

Arya stuck her tongue out at him. “We would have had thrice as much fun.”

“Jon, you mustn’t buy Rickon any more sweets. They’ll rot his teeth.”

“I bought them for you.”

“And you expected him to _ignore_ them? Have you _met_ Rickon?”

“You do realize you already gave me house slippers for my last name-day.”

“I may not be here for your next name-day.”

“Oh.” It was a deflated _Oh_. Two points of color rose in her cheeks. “You’ve never not been here for my name-day.”

“I know, little sister. I know.”

He gave her flowers, and she gave them to a tenant, a fellow whose wife had died in childbed three days past. 

He could not fault her great-heartedness, when it was the reason he loved her in the first place.

“What are you going to get me next, a tobacco pouch?” she wondered. “Can I have a pair of dueling pistols? Please?” It was a fine day and they were walking arm in arm, Arya swinging a branch like a scimitar in her free hand.

He gave her a sly look. “Might be I’ll you get an embroidery needle.”

“You wouldn’t dare—I’d stab you with it.”

“Given your skill with embroidery, I doubt I have much to fear.” 

He got a _thwap_ with the branch and a fistful of leaves in his hair for that one. At length she grew more subdued, and said, “Are you attempting to cram a year’s worth of gifts into a few weeks? Because you needn’t.”

“No. But I shall. However will you prevent me?”

She slowed and cast her eyes down. Her skin was unblemished, like fresh linen or new cream. A solitary eyelash adhered to the side of her nose, and he suppressed the urge to brush it away. He did not wish to interrupt her. She said, without looking up, “I can’t accept any more gifts.”

“You can’t accept—don’t be a goose!”

“It feels like you’re saying goodbye. I can’t bear it anymore.” She was trembling, just a little, and she still wasn’t looking at him.

“Of all the daft …. Arya, look at me. Why d’you suppose I’ve been showering you with more house-slippers than a girl could wear out in ten years?”

“Because you’re leaving,” she said. “Mayhap you’ll even neglect to write, because you’ll be occupied.”

“When have I ever neglected to write?” demanded Jon, affronted, and she had to concede the point. He ached to point out that it would not be forever, that there would be promotions and prizes and, gods willing, an honorable discharge and a tidy fortune at the end of it. He couldn’t say any of that yet, because she still had not grasped the most basic premise. “As for being occupied, _you_ will be out of the schoolroom soon enough.”

“Ha! I’ll be on the shelf soon enough.”

“You’ll be out just as soon as Sansa’s wed. You’ll be the toast of the town.”

Arya snorted. It was an excessively indecorous sound, and it was music to Jon’s ears. “At the last assembly I had hardly any partners. I didn’t mind—really I didn’t, it’s tiresome to discourse with so many acquaintances—but I tell you now, I could never have managed the reel and _especially_ the cotillion without your aid. Remember last winter when you taught me the figures? Just as you taught me everything else—horses, letters, everything that matters. I’m not sure I know how to go on without you.”

“You don’t have to.” He took hold of her hand in both of his. He had held her hand a myriad of times but never before with _intent_. “Wait for me.”

Confusion reigned in her features. “Wait for you to do what?” 

“To come home riding a dragon and whisk you off to a kinder realm,” said Jon, who found he could not resist teasing her even now, in the midst of the most consequential conversation of their lives.

“Truly?” she squeaked. She might have been seven again, when every word out of Jon’s mouth was gospel. She might have been fifteen again, when he had to lace her into her stays because she was quarreling with her mother and would permit neither Sansa nor the maids to come near her.

“Wait for me to make my fortune, and then I may marry who I like.” He could not put it plainer than that.

“Oh. Marry. Of course.” Her expression crumpled. “I shall wish you very happy, when the time comes.”

“And what do you intend to do with yourself meanwhile?” 

“I…I’ll keep house for you? Only until you’re married! I would not wish to intrude—that is, I would not presume to overstay—“

Jon was tired of her misattributing the motive behind his every overture. He was tired of watching the cupid’s bow of her upper lip quiver with anxiety, when all he wanted to do was soothe her. So he drew her into his arms and kissed her soundly. She smelled of rosemary—she had taken to tying a sprig of it to her wrist in remembrance of her papa. She was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. She was soft, and warm, and utterly pliant. It was as if she had turned into a wet noodle. For one dizzying instant he thought he had misread her—that he had made the gravest mistake of his life and lost the thing most precious to him. 

Her tongue darted forward to trace his bottom lip. “Mmm,” she said, wonderingly. “We’re allowed to _do_ this?!”

“We are if we’re engaged.”

Her eyes grew very round. “…Are we engaged?”

He had to laugh. “Arya Stark, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“If I say yes will you kiss me again?”

“I have not the slightest inclination to kiss anyone else.”

“Good,” she said. “I mean, yes. A thousand times yes. Though I wish you had asked me direct rather than by giving Rickon the toothache.”

“I wanted to do it the right way.” He stroked the pad of his thumb along her jaw, and got the satisfaction of feeling her shiver from the contact. “So you would know that you are cherished, that you are precious to me.”

“I know that. I have always known it.” She added, sheepish, “I just didn’t think that anyone would want to _marry_ me. _Me_ , Arya Horseface. They’d want to marry Lady Arya, sure, but I’m no proper lady and you’re the only one who’s never cared….Oh, Jon,” she gulped, “I must be the luckiest girl alive.”

As if she had not been sole proprietor of his heart since the day she first drew breath. He kissed her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who are familiar with _Persuasion_ will know that it kicks off well after the breakup, and the whole whirlwind romance that preceded the breakup is often alluded to but like, the way Robert's Rebellion is alluded to in canon. I didn't feel I could do the same here, so I hope you all enjoyed Jon and Arya's courtship!
> 
> Also, in addition to Austen, this fic is--like every Regency romance--heavily influenced by Georgette Heyer, and this chapter in particular owes a debt to _Bath Tangle_.


	4. Chapter 4

Arya was content. Most days she still felt hollow; there was a hole in her where her father used to be, but it was a comfort to know that Jon bore a wound of matching dimensions. Jon was everything. She had been happy before—she had been happy for the better part of her eighteen years—but contentment had never been hers, because there was always the gnawing conviction she was doing something wrong. That she didn’t fit. When Jon had kissed her, her whole life had made sense. 

It would be a long engagement, he had warned her. 

“How long? A year?”

“I waited five years for you to be born,” he said, curling his hand into the nape of her neck. “You have no grounds for complaint.”

“Two years,” she allowed, which seemed more than generous. “You can’t possibly expect me to put up with Mama and Sansa for longer than that!”

“Have you forgotten? Sansa will be Marchioness of Storm’s End before the year is out.” 

“Good riddance,” pronounced Arya.

But it was not to be. Later, Arya would remember the day it all fell apart—the day Sansa set her saucer down on the breakfast-table with an audible clang. Sansa was never careless, least of all with the china. Arya looked up just in time to catch Rickon smearing butter on his shirt instead of his toast, smoothly plucked the knife out of his hand, and turned to discover Sansa tearing a letter in two, all the color leeched from her face.

Sansa was a pale girl but this went beyond _pale_. Arya was debating the merits of asking her sister if there had been another poltergeist sighting when Catelyn said sharply, “Sansa.”

It was the height of rudeness to ignore a direct address. Sansa was forever telling Arya so, and lending her etiquette guides that told her the same. Sansa was at present staring into some point in the middle distance. Her mouth hung slightly agape, and the sound that emerged from her throat seemed barely human. There were no words, only grief. 

“ _Sansa_ ,” said Catelyn, and flew to her side. 

Sansa mumbled something hoarse and unintelligible. After a few repetitions Arya thought she caught the words _my fault_. Robb was already on his feet, hastily ushering the servants out of the breakfast-room. Rickon was taking advantage of the distraction to help himself to a pile of pastries.

Bran had retrieved the scrap of letter Sansa had dropped. “There being no reason to delay,” he read aloud in his high, clear voice, “… hold you in the highest regard … deepest condolences …. grateful for your comprehension….would not wish to be accused of a want of delicacy….consider myself released from any obligation….beg to be remembered to your mother…”

Very deliberately, Bran crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. “He’s a blackguard and no mistake.”

“But I don’t _understand_ ,” wailed Sansa. “If my conduct was not correct…if I gave him cause…But what did I do _wrong_? Mama, tell me how I did wrong!”

“No. The wrong is not in you, child. When your dowry evaporated it appears so did Joffrey’s ardor.”

Every vein in Robb’s throat was throbbing. In one arm he held a protesting Rickon, whose cheeks and chubby fists were sticky with jam. With the other arm he made a chopping motion. “Joffrey Baratheon will answer for this.”

“How? With pistols at dawn?” wondered Mama. “Be rational, Robb.”

Arya tightened her grip on Rickon’s butter knife and offered, “I’ll stab him. He won’t see it coming.”

It was a sign of Catelyn’s agitation that she did not admonish Arya. She said only, “It’s done. Done is done. I ought never have agreed to the match, but your father’s judgment overrode mine. He thought it would bring her security to be a marchioness. But there is no security to be found in the promises of unprincipled men.”

“He made it sound like it was _Sansa’s_ idea!” burst out of Arya. “That breaking off the engagement—that it was by mutual assent! He’s a coward and a liar besides.” (“Liar, liar!” Rickon agreed vigorously. Bran flicked a crumb of bread at him and Rickon gamely opened his mouth to swallow it.)

“Yes, but there is no way of calling him so that does not further damage your sister’s reputation. Sansa, come along.” A low keening noise emanated from Sansa. Catelyn took her firmly by the elbow and escorted her from the room.

“One might think her more cut up over the loss of a bridegroom than the loss of your papa,” was Jon’s verdict, when she met him for their morning gallop.

Arya chewed her lip. “But nobody blamed her for what happened to Papa, did they?”

“Are you defending _Sansa_?” His expression was openly incredulous. 

“It’s not her fault. She never put a foot wrong. None of this is her fault. Well, a tiny bit her fault—she oughtn’t have accepted that boar of a boy in the first place.”

“You do not suppose all men to be as fickle as the Baratheon boy?”

“Of course not. _You_ would not give me up for a fortune—or for the preferment of some patron, or a trifle such as that?”

“I would not give you up for anything,” laughed Jon. “Race you to the next hedge?”

When Arya swept in from the stables some time later she was told her mother awaited her in the drawing-room. Even standing in the foyer, Arya could hear her sister on the pianoforte. Sansa was not very good at having feelings but no-one could gainsay that she was a prodigy at the piano.

Arya greeted her mother with, “How does she go on, Mama?”

“She’s had her heart broken.”

“Fiddle! If she’s lost her heart to that lout then I’m the Duke of Dorne. She’s had a terrible shock but she’ll recover in time.”

“Where, pray tell, do you derive this expert knowledge on matters of the heart?” asked Catelyn, and Arya colored. She ignored the chair opposite her mother and opted instead to pace the length of the room. Catelyn said, “ _Must_ you stomp around in that cloak, dear girl? Even indoors?”

“You’re only saying that because it’s Jon’s cloak,” said Arya, mulish. She wrapped it tighter around herself.

“Yes.” Her mother knit her brows together. “Arya, this cannot go on.” 

“Me wearing Jon’s clothes? Do you wish me to stop borrowing Bran’s too?” 

“Do not pretend to misapprehend me. I mean all of it.” She made a gesture that encompassed Arya’s entire fractious, slipshod clad self. “Your papa chose not to curb your wildness but your papa is gone, child. Robb is determined to join the Stark name to a family of upjumped merchants—of course it is for the best, I am not an ingrate—but henceforth there will be certain quarters of society where we will not be received. That is the way of it. Now we must contend with Sansa’s disappointment and all the talk that is sure to ensue from it. You must see that with this pall hanging over our family, you cannot afford to cultivate a reputation for being _fast_ , do you take my meaning?”

A “fast” woman was one who wore drawers or pantaloons—and men’s cloaks, apparently. “I don’t see that Sansa’s spotless reputation did her much good, Mama.”

Catelyn glowered meaningfully and said, with all the solemnity of catechism, “You must never forget: a woman _is_ her reputation.”

Arya scoffed. A woman was a _person_ , just as a man was. 

This was an old argument, and Catelyn was prepared for her skepticism. “You think I have never been young, or heedless of consequences? I have learnt better, that is all. When I was a girl—just your age—I formed an ill-advised attachment to an unsuitable boy. I had known him all my life; I saw no harm in enhancing the connection. Fortunately cooler heads prevailed, else I would not be here today.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. This was the first she had heard of such an attachment. She said, “Did you cry off?”

“It is not always a dishonorable thing to do, you know. But no; there was no need. I merely entertained his suit for longer than I ought, longer than was appropriate.”

“What was his name?”

“It makes no matter.”

“Do you think of him still?”

“Arya, you are missing the _entire_ point,” said Catelyn, exasperated. 

“No, I’m not. I’m ascertaining if you made the right decision. How can I do that if I haven’t got the relevant facts?”

“The right decision is the one that led to the five of you—I would not exchange my children for anything.”

“But wouldn’t you have loved your children just as much if you’d married this other man? Wouldn’t you have loved your children even if you’d married Uncle Brandon?”

Catelyn made a choked noise. It might have been _Arya_ , but it was hard to be sure. “He was not half the man your father was.”

“Do you refer to my uncle Brandon, or the man you didn’t marry?” This elicited an even more appalled noise from Catelyn. Arya hazarded, “He was untitled. That’s what you really mean.”

“No title, no fortune, nothing but himself to recommend him,” confirmed Catelyn.

“And you an earl’s daughter,” said Arya. She could see where this lecture was going and she had been right to be wary of it. “So this is about Jon. You might have said.”

Catelyn shook her head. “Would you have listened? When have you ever taken anyone’s part over that boy’s?”

“Never. And I’m not about to start now. Just because _you_ had a change of sentiment does not signify I will too!” 

“Do you not see the danger? All your life I have cautioned you, you are too free with your manners. You are not a child of eight any longer; you are eighteen, and a lady. If you do not wish to be taken for a woman of loose morals you must avoid even the _appearance_ of impropriety—walking out with a gentleman alone, conferring behind closed doors, appropriating articles of his wardrobe. For the love of everything that’s holy, I _know_ you possess a riding-coat of your own; why do you not wear it? Given your own careless conduct—given the peculiar circumstances of the boy’s upbringing—it is only natural that he might presume a familiarity he is not entitled to.”

She snorted. “You have never acknowledged him a _gentleman_ before today.”

“Arya. We must head this off before anything further comes of it.”

“What do you fear might come of it?” 

“That cur presumes overmuch.”

To suffer Jon to be abused in her hearing was not a thing she had ever been able to abide. “He presumes nothing, Mama. There can be no impropriety in walking out with the man I am engaged to marry.”

She braced herself for her mother’s displeasure, but Catelyn’s countenance was entirely overcome with disbelief; she let her head sink into her hands and from behind her palms Arya heard, “Do you mean to tell me that you … that you and your father’s ward have formed an _understanding_?”

Arya was nonplussed. It was an engagement, not a prison sentence. “What can you possibly have been prating at me about all this time, if not to persuade me against this very course?”

“No,” gasped Catelyn, fumbling for her handkerchief, and Arya stepped forward to proffer her own. Catelyn’s eyes, when she turned them on her daughter, were wild and terrified. “No, no, no. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me it has not gone as far as that. Oh, Ned, what have you _done_.”

Arya was sorry then. She was not ashamed of her own conduct, but she was sorry for causing her mother hurt. Between Papa, and Robb, and now Sansa, Catelyn had borne enough. “We did not wish to spring another secret engagement on you so soon. I had hoped that you would wish us happy.”

That Catelyn could not possibly be further from congratulating Arya or Jon was plain. Arya had never seen her mother so shaken. “You are mad, to do this. You did not think to consult your only living parent before embarking on such a step? If your papa was alive today—”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me Papa would have opposed the match. Don’t you dare. Papa loved Jon.” As always, her voice hitched on the word _Papa_. She felt sure that Papa would have understood; not to say he would have _approved_ , necessarily, but Papa had always treated Arya’s opinions as worth weighing. 

“So your Papa did,” Catelyn said bitterly. “Do you suppose I love _you_ any less?” 

Arya scuffed her boots. “Might be easier if you didn’t love me at all.”

Her mother’s tone softened and she reached up with a shaking hand to smooth a plait of Arya’s hair. “Oh, my impulsive girl. With your papa gone and all of us to pieces, I should have known you would go and do a silly thing like this.”

She drew back, stung. “It’s not some sudden fancy! The engagement is of long standing.”

“How long?“

“Eighteen years,” she said with a toss of her head, and when she saw her mother wince it gave her a frisson of satisfaction. _Serves her right for invoking Papa’s name—of all things!—against Jon._

“This is no laughing matter,” said Catelyn, shuddering.

Arya wasn’t laughing. If her mother became any more overwrought Arya might have to go and fetch Sansa’s smelling salts.

“The inequality of the alliance must, in the first instance, militate against it. His having no prospects—“

“He is going to rise high in the Navy. Uncle Benjen has already agreed to put in a good word for him. If you’re still angry at Papa for leaving him the bequest, you should know you are the only one. Robb is wholly glad of it.” There. Let Catelyn set herself up against Papa, Uncle Ben, _and_ Robb.

But Catelyn, sensing this line of argument would find no purchase, had moved on to a new plane of attack. “And does the future hold nothing but calm waters and smooth sailing? What obstacles have you accounted for? What if he meets with some mishap? What if he throws you over the same way the Baratheon whelp discarded your sister like a two-piece harlot? Tell me, how long until he gets his step to captain—five years? Ten? How long will you remain in suspense? How long will you wait for him?”

“Forever, if need be.” What an absurd question. She would doubt her own senses before she doubted Jon’s devotion. “Must you go _inventing_ reasons to dislike Jon when none are ready to hand?” 

Her mother was by now so riled up that her words were accompanied by a most unladylike line of spittle. Catelyn did not appear to notice. “You witless infant. You will throw your life away—“

“Yes, yes, I’ll have to turn away the line of suitors beating a path to our door. Be honest, Mama, who in the wide world will want me more than Jon does?” _Want me for me_ , she meant. There were men aplenty who might vie for her hand, but every one of them would want her to be someone else, someone she was not. She had rather remain a maid the rest of her days than submit to that.

“You…” Catelyn looked as if she would have liked nothing more than to wring Arya’s neck, and had only barely managed to check herself. “Do not speak to me of that misbegotten whelp’s _wants_. If he has touched you—“

This she could not let stand. “If you say another word against him I swear on Papa’s soul I will get on the next boat to Essos and become an actress. Abuse me all you like, just leave Jon out of it.” Having laid down this blistering ultimatum, she added a little plaintively, “Would it kill you—just once—to say his _name_?” Catelyn had in fact never said Jon’s name; not today, not ever in Arya’s hearing. He was _the boy_ or _your father’s ward_. 

“His name is a stain upon your father’s honor,” sniffed Catelyn.

“Not that old cant. It’s poppycock—Papa would never—“

“Have you been paying attention at all? It’s not what your papa did or didn’t do; it’s what will be said about him. And about you: A woman’s reputation is more vulnerable to such conjecture than a man’s. Have you no sense of self-preservation at all, impetuous girl?”  


Arya forced down her simmering indignation on Jon’s behalf and said with genuine contrition, “I know I am a disappointment to you. It’s too late to change that. But Jon is not the _cause_ of my inability to conform.” He was merely the one place she had found solace. 

“It’s as if the scandal means naught to you!” The notion of being unperturbed by scandal was evidently so alien to Catelyn’s worldview that she was forced to infer a malign influence on Jon’s part to account for it. That she had stopped hurling ugly epithets in Jon’s direction did not signify that she had grown less agitated. Her hands had not stopped moving; she had torn Arya’s handkerchief to shreds and was making short shrift of her own.

“Hang the scandal. I don’t care what they say of me. I just want you to stop insulting Jon.”

Catelyn stilled. She shot Arya a shrewd look. “Do you care what they say about _Jon_?”

She frowned at the unprecedented use of his name. “Matrimony can only enhance his prospects.”

“Not if he weds a portionless girl rumored to be his half-sister,” crowed her mother.

Arya was struck momentarily speechless. “He doesn’t give a jot about—about money, or connections! Jon’s not Joffrey Baratheon, he’s marrying me for _me_. As for the other—that is a vile slander. Who is slandering Papa so?”

“Everyone from Moat Cailin to the Wall, by now.” Her mother said it with untoward relish. “There were a dozen people present the day your father’s will was read. They drew their own conclusions, I’m sure.”

“But it’s not true,” spluttered Arya.

“Do you know that for a certainty?”

“Mama!”

“There will be talk of Jon’s parentage,” continued Catelyn, warming to her subject. There was something manic in the way she was reducing the poor handkerchief to its component threads. “Are you prepared to embroil a promising young officer’s career in such ugly innuendo? To saddle him with a wife who is half a boy and half a horse?”

A horrified “No!” burst out of Arya. Her gut clenched in recognition of the truth. She was absolutely hopeless at being a proper lady. It had just never mattered to Jon, before. “I would never, ever hurt Jon.“ 

“ _You_ persuaded your father to make the changes to his will, did you not?”

“But—“

Her mother did not let her finish. Before today Arya would have described her mother as the most unflappable of women, one who had borne the bombshell of Robb’s engagement and the dissolution of Sansa’s with admirable equanimity. Even when Bran had lain at death’s door with the typhus, even when the news came of Papa’s demise—even then, Catelyn’s rectitude had been exemplary. Arya wondered who this unhinged woman was and how she had come to replace her mother. “I have raised a dolt for a daughter if you think it matters a whit the truth or falsity of the reports. I have told you time and again, what matters is the mere appearance of impropriety. Do you think your over-familiarity with your father’s ward has escaped the neighborhood’s notice?”

“This is a trick,” declared Arya, though with less than total confidence. A sliver of doubt had entered her. “First you argue the match is degrading to _me_ due to the inequality of the alliance; then you say it will hobble _his_ future. You don’t give a damn about Jon. You never have.”

“No, but you do,” came the devastating response. “What is it the mongrel calls you?”

Arya’s heart was a leaden weight within her; she hardly even registered her mother’s latest calumny. Jon’s pet name for her was his way of affirming she belonged to him. But did belonging to him in one preclude all the others? Was this a road she had led herself down, all unknowing? She shook her head in mute denial. 

Her mother was both savage and implacable. “I am neither deaf nor dumb to what goes on under my own roof. I ask you again, _what does he call you_?”

“…Little sister,” whimpered Arya, and Catelyn’s eyes glittered in triumph. 

“There. You see? If you marry him they will say he plowed his own sister.” 

All her life she had been Jon’s first line of defense against a hostile world that scorned him as less than. To think that now Arya was the one he needed protecting from—it made her physically ill. 

All her life she had run to him for comfort. That path was also closed to her. If she went near him now he would have the truth out of her in five heartbeats, and he would give up his future before he gave her up. She would be an albatross around his neck. He would be a pariah. _I am a failure in every other respect—as a daughter, a sister, a lady. I cannot fail Jon. I won’t be the cause of Jon’s undoing_ , she vowed.

She drifted into the parlor, installed herself on the bench beside Sansa, and began turning her music for her. Sansa shifted to make room but did not otherwise acknowledge her presence. Sansa was playing a funeral march. 

_If only I was more like Sansa, none of this would be happening_. Sansa had never given Jon more than courtesy. Sansa had never sought refuge in Jon’s bed from nightmares. Sansa had never sparked controversy by word or deed. Sansa was going to make someone a paragon of a wife. 

_Everything is upside down today._ If anyone had told her yesterday that Arya would want, first, to be _more_ like Sansa, and second, to stay _away_ from Jon, she would have laughed so hard she’d probably have fallen into the birdbath.

But was it inconsistent, after all, to want the best for the ones you loved? Arya did not think she’d ever love anyone as much as she loved Jon, not if she lived to be a hundred. She had not changed; her sentiments remained fixed; yet her estimation of the consequences had indeed undergone a change. There was no escaping the conclusion thus arrived at.

She knew better than anyone Jon’s most ardent wish: to be judged justly on his own merits—not his name or lack thereof. She had it in her power to grant him that. All she had to do was set him free to marry someone who was not utterly incompetent by every criterion of womanhood—and not his little sister. 

Arya knew what she had to do. She just didn’t know how to do it without breaking herself in two.

When she had had a bellyful of funeral marches she joined Bran and Rickon on the lawn for a game of handball; which is to say Arya and Bran argued about the rules while Rickon held court with a conclave of local lizards. 

Arya said, “Do you think he was raised by feral cats?” 

Bran said, “You’d know better than me.” 

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re the unconventional one—the one he emulates. You get away with things.” Bran did not sound resentful, merely resigned.

“Get _away_ with things? You sound like Sansa.”

“Occasionally Sansa makes valid points.”

“Go and play handball with her then.”

“No, no, come back. I’m glad you’re here. Really. Rickon’s been feeling neglected. I keep telling him it’s only natural you’d want to spend every second with Jon, but he’s six, Arya. He doesn’t understand.” Bran gave this pronouncement all the gravity of his fifteen years.

“Oh. I didn’t even think…” 

“It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s a menace to the wildlife but he’s _fine_ , really.” And, with a sidelong look: “This is hard on you.”

Arya was so bruised from Catelyn’s pitiless excoriation that she did not know what to do when handed an emotion as unbarbed as sympathy. She said dully, “I always knew Jon would leave. He doesn’t need me anymore. Thank you for reminding me that Rickon does.”

There was a crease in Bran’s brow. “Have you and Jon had a falling-out?” 

Arya laughed hollowly. 

“Because the last time you were vexed at him we all wound up with spiders in our boots for a fortnight, and I’d appreciate some warning this time.”

As if childish quarrels could encompass the extent of her despair. “Bran,” she said, and he quailed a little at her intensity, “who would you say my favorite brother is?”

“Jon, of course. What kind of question is that?”

Arya bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She wished she did not wear her own feelings so openly, for all the world to see. She wished she did not have to live in the world at all, with its rules designed to stifle every genuine impulse—for how could there be a wrong way to love Jon? She wished she had never been born. She could say none of this to Bran. “It’s nothing. It’s only—I miss Papa. If he was here everything would be different.”

“So do I,” said Bran. “It’s lucky Jon’s got his future sorted. Mama wouldn’t have let him stay. She’s not even letting _us_ stay.”

“…What?” she said, a beat late because she was still thinking about how if Jon was to _have_ a future she could not be part of it.

“If you weren’t spending every waking moment with Jon you’d have heard before now. Mama is intent on bearing us all away from here before Miss Westerling takes possession of the place. Says she wants to prevent any confusion about who is the proper mistress of Winterfell. Also…” He gestured at Rickon, who was pulling insects out of the grass and offering them to his reptilian companions. Once in a while there was a sickening crunch as he popped one in his own mouth. 

“Right,” said Arya tightly. “Raised by feral cats.” Rickon was a trial, it must be admitted. Little wonder that their mother hesitated to inflict him upon Robb’s new bride. “What has Robb to say to this scheme of Mama’s?”

“Says it’s absurd, and quite unnecessary. Mama won’t budge though. Robb says we should leave the horses here, for the time being.”

Yesterday she would have had a thousand questions: Where were they to go? What would they live on? How often could they visit the horses? But today she felt only an overwhelming sense of relief. A clean break was what she needed. If she was to lose both Papa and Jon forever, at least she would not be condemned to walk these grounds where every blade of grass served as a painful reminder of what she had lost. “Good,” she heard herself say. She added, in response to Bran’s look of bafflement, “I mean, the change of scenery is sure to do Sansa good.”

“Never knew you to be so solicitous of Sansa’s well-being.”

Arya punched him in the arm. “Don’t tell Rickon, but you’re my second favorite brother, all right?”

It came to her that Jon would never call her _little sister_ again, not after she broke his heart. That hurt worse than not being able to marry him. Jon was the foundation on which she had built her life, his unwavering affection her only constant. To lose that—she did not know how she would recover from such a loss. Her roots had grown entangled with his. Cut her loose, and she’d probably wither away.

Of course there was no concealing her distress from Jon. What hideous irony, that she had never been any good at keeping secrets from him and now everything depended on her doing so. She waited till they had tied the horses up and he was sitting down on a stump before she delivered the blow, the words steady and rehearsed: “I release you from our engagement. The impediments are quite insurmountable.”

He blinked rapidly. “What has gotten into you?” He wasn’t furious or disappointed—only quizzical.

“I said—“

“I heard what you said. I’m asking you what’s wrong. Hey. Look at me.” His hands were tender as they moved to cup her face. He was always so tender with her. _You are precious to me_ , he had told her, and she would carry that declaration with her all her days. 

The sight of his beloved countenance was more than she could bear. She jerked her chin out of his hands and mumbled, “Listen. I wouldn’t make you a good wife.” _I wouldn’t make_ anyone _an adequate wife, and I won’t saddle you with that burden._

He huffed derisively. “So you spoke to your mother. Finally.”

“This does not come from my mother.” She could defy her mother; she could not willingly blight Jon’s life with her presence. _It’s like amputating a diseased limb_ , she thought—though it was unclear who here was under the knife, Jon or herself. _Will I ever stop bleeding when he’s cut?_ She hoped not. She hoped the pain would never cease, if the pain was to be all she got to keep of Jon. She prepared to drive the knife in another inch: “You said it yourself: I am an earl’s daughter. You are a man of unknown family. It’s an unthinkable match.”

Instead of objecting he studied her for a long, tense moment, fingers drumming against his thigh. He concluded, “No, this isn’t you.”

“This is my decision. The engagement is off.”

“You think I care about an _engagement_ , when you—“ he broke off, swearing fluidly. “You address me as if I’m an acquaintance of three weeks’ standing. _Me_.” There was a harsh edge to voice. “Someone has hurt you, I can see that. Was it your mother? Tell me what she said. For pity’s sake _tell me what is wrong_ so I may remedy it.”

“That duty is no longer yours,” she intoned. Was her mouth really shaping these preposterous words? Now that she had begun, did she have the fortitude to see this to the end? One thing she knew: She could not let him touch her again.

He was on his feet in a flash, demanding, “Are you out of your senses? Your welfare _not my duty_?! Whose bloody duty is it?” He made to grab her round the waist but she was no longer seven years old; she danced away.

“I have said I release you from your promise, Jon. It’s no concern of yours what oppresses me.”

“No concern of—Do you even hear yourself? What poison has your mother been spewing in your ear? The truth, now, Arya.” He was still advancing on her. He looked like he did not intend to stop until he’d dangled her by the ankles and shaken the truth out of her. 

She couldn’t have that. She reached for the worst thing she could think of and flung it at him. “I would have thought Papa taught you better than to persecute a lady with your unwanted attentions.”

That dropped him in his tracks. A stricken expression overtook him.

Arya pressed her advantage. “My troubles are my affair, and I am perfectly able to manage them myself. You must not suppose yourself the center of the universe.”

“You’re the center of mine,” rasped Jon, and she did not know what she had ever done to deserve him. Here she was grinding his dignity into dust and all he wanted was to crawl back to her, to regain the smallest scrap of her regard. 

She said briskly, “That intimacy is in the past. That’s what I brought you here to tell you. Don’t bother waiting for me and Nymeria on the morrow.”

He waited for her on the morrow. He waited for her every day for a week, but she rode in the afternoons with Bran and Rickon. He waited for her in the orchard, and in the kitchens, and in the nursery. She did not precisely ignore him, but neither did she believe they could ever return to the easy camaraderie of before. If she could not have all of him she doubted she would be content with some of him.

She steeled herself to recall that she was consulting _his_ good above all. Society was bursting with the daughters and sisters of admirals and commandants, any one of whom could sew a straighter stitch than Arya. That was what he needed in a wife: a helpmeet, not another black mark against his character. Jon could not see it, of course, because Jon’s judgment was impaired. He could not be relied upon to advocate for his own best interest. She would have to do that for him. 

After a week his demeanor had shifted from anger and confusion to hurt. “Will you tell me _why_ , at least?”

“I cannot marry to disoblige my family. It’s as simple as that.”

He inhaled a short, sharp breath. “I am not your family?”

She wanted to cry. She wanted the earth to swallow her up so she would never have to see that stupefied look of betrayal again. “The world is as it is, Jon.”

Jon’s long fingers clenched and unclenched. He was long of face and long of limb, composed of sharp angles and solemn scowls. Only in Arya’s company had his reserve ever thawed completely. He said now, disbelievingly, “The world? The Others may have the world for all I care. _You_ have ever been my staunchest champion—as long as I had you, the rest was immaterial. I would doubt my own faculties before I doubted the strength of your regard. I know not who I am without your affection to anchor me. Do you really mean to forsake me? You will not marry me—will you at least _speak_ to me? Please, Arya. I leave in three days.”

If she let him go on he would wear her down, and all her work would be undone. Arya said with feigned irritation, “You are making a mountain out of a molehill. I had a change of sentiment. It’s not unheard of in a woman.”

He gaped at that. His penetrating grey eyes swept her up and down as if she were a stranger. When he finally spoke it had the same effect as if he had reached in through her sternum and ripped her soul directly out of her body. He tilted his head in the direction of the parlor, where Sansa was playing a fugue. “I had not thought to find you less constant than Sansa.” 

The day before he was due to depart he came to her one last time, his voice breaking. “In your father’s name, little sister—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” she cried. 

He recoiled. His entire body was taut with repressed emotion. 

“Don’t call me that. Just—don’t. I beg of you.”

She could identify the instant when all hope fled his features. His face came down like a portcullis, but he was no good at closing himself off to _her_ —he hadn’t any practice at it. “As you will.” In one hand he hefted a stack of letters tied together with string. “Your correspondence.”

“Burn it, if you like,” she snapped. If he wanted to get rid of it that badly he could do it himself. In her own chambers she kept a chest full of his letters; they were her most prized possessions.

He lingered still, searching her face for….something. Gods above, what more was there to say? Had they not wounded each other enough for ten lifetimes? He took a step towards her, leaves crunching underfoot. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” Another step. He was close enough that his scent set her skin aflame. “Even though you have proved my judgment false…still, I loved the person I thought you were. That was real, even if you were not.” He was too close; if he laid his palm on the small of her back he could pull her flush against him. Her heart was a wild thrashing in her breast. “I have learnt a hard lesson.” His mouth hovered a bare inch above hers. Her eyes fluttered closed. “I won’t repeat the same mistake.” He pressed his lips briefly to the corner of her mouth. Then he stepped back. “Goodbye, Arya.”

“Goodbye, Jon.” It came out as a sob.

When she opened her eyes again he was gone. She would not see him again for five years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this a few times--I hope it worked, I hope you all are in as much pain as I am. I'm going to take a hiatus for the rest of the month to work on some other (non asoiaf) stuff but I'll be back in January. Thank you so much for reading and commenting and kudos'ing, it means the world to me. <3


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